


you, me, and you

by yosgay



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Non-Binary Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends, Other, Rivalry, to... lovers? ;)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:15:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27220315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yosgay/pseuds/yosgay
Summary: Bloodhound has known men like Mirage. A yapping dog convinced the nip of his teeth can do little more than break skin, boastful of his few accomplishments. They dismissed him at first—but then they did as they always do.They watched.
Relationships: Bloodhound/Mirage | Elliott Witt
Comments: 6
Kudos: 65





	you, me, and you

**Author's Note:**

> this was my piece for the [apex legends fanzine!](https://twitter.com/jyborgs/status/1320901741257367553?s=20)
> 
> i luv bloodhound more than words can describe (and deep down they love mirage even more than that)

If there’s one thing a hunter must have, it is patience.

Before each game, the drop ship is an exercise in observation. There is much to see, there is much to discover—and Bloodhound is always willing to learn. 

Each Apex Legend has earned their place here, and Bloodhound means to know how. Some are more obvious than others, of course; Wattson for her prowess, Octane, his entertainment. The hard lines cutting canyons across Bangalore’s face speak for themselves; if they did not, then the butt of her gun would be just as loud.

Everyone proves their worth, each deserving of Bloodhound’s respect. They are all equals on the battlefield.

But… they would never deny themself a rivalry.

The blade of their knife reflects meager light back into their eyes, filtered by their mask. They sit on the outskirts of the group, awaiting squad assignments, daring not to waste hope on something so… trivial.

They rarely wish to team with anyone; but perhaps they have a preference on who they would like to face.

The loudest of them all.

Bloodhound has known men like Mirage. A yapping dog convinced the nip of his teeth can do little more than break skin, boastful of his few accomplishments. They dismissed him at first—but then they did as they always do. They watched.

Bloodhound has long since found a home in edges and cracks, outskirts and shadows. But Mirage, he lounges in the heat of any spotlight. He spreads to fill the space around them all until nothing is untouched by his presence. Here on the ship, he brings levity. But in the games, his energy overflows into an unrelenting chaos that is impossible to ignore. He adds an element that they have never encountered; it alights their blood, stoking the fires of competition.

The edge of their axe gleams as it slides against the sharpening stone. He will face death today, as they all will. Some will be brave, some will cower. Some will take victory. Bloodhound wonders if Mirage will be one of them.

So when the screen lights up with the news of their opposing teams, they ready themself for war. 

Across from them, Mirage winks.

They should take his eye.

* * *

“There are no squads around us.”

Static distorts Crypto’s voice in their ears.

Wraith sounds more machine than human when she says, “Copy that.”

He’s right; they are alone. Even without a sweeping scan of the marshlands, Bloodhound knows this. The only noise around them is the sloshing of swamp water as they change buildings, scavenging for treasure among the slums. The pitchy hum of a zipline catching on a hook. The dull, metallic clink of weapon attachments abandoned on a rotting wood floor.

Behind it all, their steady breathing is a metronome.

 _Patience_ , they think. _He cannot hide forever._

And in the surrounding silence, there is an orchestra.

Insect calls. So distinctive and lovely in their own ways, Bloodhound could name and diagram each one. The gamemakers have gone to great lengths to make this place feel authentic, alive as it once was; but despite the crescendo of chirps and buzzes, there is no life other than the legends in the arena.

Bloodhound thinks that’s a shame.

Nature is as it is because of each moving part. Every living thing has earned its place on the food chain, and they are no different. When they kill, scavengers feed. Decomposers destroy. New life is given in its place.

This island may once have been home to great beasts, bathing Bloodhound in their awesome shadows, but no longer. They hover on the edge of the island, banished from their lands in search of a home they will never find again.

And Bloodhound, they understand that well.

Stagnant water aside, this place has been scrubbed clean of life and replaced with a soundtrack to mimic it. But with a shake of their head, they must put away such sentimentality. They are not here to mourn the dead; they are here to add to the pile.

A familiar scent catches the air. The flash of a hologram, a heavy footprint in the mud. Crypto and Wraith appear silently at their flank, and Bloodhound has forgotten all but the thrill of the hunt.

* * *

The chase does not last long. 

Bloodhound follows his obvious trail into the heat of the desert, with a burning focus born of pure instinct. Beside them, Wraith and Crypto are nothing short of surgical. For their opponents, the fight is messy; a spray of stray bullets and mortal wounds, happlessly patched, leave Octane and Rampart bleeding out beside their real target.

Mirage.

A knee to his chest, and he’s pinned like a moth to a corkboard. Something about him is just as fascinating. He struggles as they trail the blunt end of their axe along his jawline, and though he cannot see it, they smile at the stuttering quip he uses to barter for his life. There is no time for mercy here; but perhaps there is a moment for indulgence.

His eyes are wild, but not with fear. He lives for this just as they do. There’s adrenaline swallowing his pupils, leaving behind rings of gold light in the unforgiving sun. His skin, his hair, all of him—he gleams. He could be a gift from the gods, sparkling and sought-after.

 _More importantly_ , they remind themself—it’s another point in their favor.

He wheezes something about an autograph. A picture, a souvenir, anything for a fan—a wag of his eyebrows— _anything_ they want to let him go.

Strikingly, they find that they _do_ want.

But they cannot let him go.

His babbling is strained with their knee in his stomach. Gold shades red, and they can delay no longer.

It’s his time.

They bring their weight to bear, and his halo is swallowed by shadow.

“You fought well,” they say, and his smile is crooked with charm, even as he braces.

“I’ll getcha next time,” he says. And he winks, as he is wont to do.

His mouth opens again; their hatchet finds its way to his throat, a fine way to shut him up. 

_Pity_ , they think. At some point in all this, they’ve begun to grow fond of the sound of his voice.

* * *

After the celebration, the spoils of victory, Bloodhound takes an unfamiliar detour. Towards aseptic white and beeping machinery, stringent cleaners and all the blood they’ve wiped away. 

His room is the same as all the others. 

As their boots squeak on the tile, he starts out of his slumber. He wakes sweating and confused, as most of them do. The raw emotions pass across his face as he blinks, bleary and vulnerable; so open that Bloodhound must turn away. Their chest grows tight with something long-since buried.

But when he gets his bearings, he grins.

Still trembling, he pads out of bed, and his arm is thrown around their shoulders with familiarity he has not earned. They do not know why they allow this. It’s unlike them; but then, admittedly, they did come here to gloat. It seems Mirage brings out many sides of them.

“You got me good,” he says, laugh like a melody. “But I got the next one!”

Artur inspects him, curious and suspicious, ready to peck out his eyes if they give the word. It would be one way to quell that incessant wink of his—but they won’t. If he’s to best them this time, he’ll need every advantage he can get.

Under their mask, they find that they’re smiling again.

“I wish you luck, _elskan.”_

* * *

His parlor tricks do not confuse them often.

His technology is advanced, but theirs is as the heel of Achilles; the Eye tells which _him_ is true. It cannot say much beyond that, however. Not on a fresh battlefield where there is too much to see. They are getting too cocky. If they let themself be distracted, Mirage will take the opportunity.

And as if the Allfather himself means to put them in their place—on the grassy fields around the Cage, Bloodhound meets the end of a pistol.

Mirage does not show mercy. Nor should he.

What he does, however—is taunt his kill. Play with his food.

Bloodhound believes in quick and painless. A noble death. Mirage believes in a good show. 

His face is flecked with the blood of an old kill. The board behind him broadcasts his name and face with the auspice of celebrity, and they know he revels in this. And they have to admit, even through the pain of their wounds—he puts on quite a performance.

“Told ya I’d win,” he says, smirking. On cue, he gifts them with another wink. 

Hidden again, they smile.

This round of the game, he has bested many. They are honored to fall at his hand.

“Only this time, _sæti,”_ they say.

And it all goes dark.

* * *

They wake from death’s throes in a hospital bed, safe behind their mask. Mirage’s smile is bright when it peeks around the corner into their room. He nudges their shoulder as if they were a friend; were he anyone else, Bloodhound would be tempted to cut off his hand. As it is, their fingers twitch to reach out and hold it. 

They are not so ignorant to this little game they started, to the lightness in their chest at every exchanged blow. 

If nothing else, there is clarity in each death.

Feeling was once their burden; _“Ástfangin,”_ Artur called them, by nature. _A prisoner of love_. There was accusation in his voice back then, for there was little room for it. That was a long time ago, of course. This is not so dramatic. But as Mirage recounts grand tales of the arena, as he gloats and boasts and teases, his eyes sparkling in the artificial light—Bloodhound wonders if perhaps there could be more to this rivalry than just body count. 

**Author's Note:**

> something about writing a totally canon-compliant piece from a major franchise with a character who uses they/them pronouns... well maybe it's making me emotional. i'm holding bloodhound up like simba


End file.
